Hold Page One!
by avidbeader
Summary: Post-OotP one-shot, AU. Hermione's ban on Rita Skeeter is about to expire, and she has a plan to give the reporter a very special scoop. What kind of stories will Rita chase now? And will it backfire on Hermione? H/Hr if you squint.


**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The Quaero spell is borrowed with permission from alchymie, whose post-Hogwarts trilogy is one of the best things on Fiction Alley. Thank you!

* * *

She approached the Leaky Cauldron slowly, threading her way through the rain dripping from the eaves above. Once she was inside, she ended the Impervius Charm on her cloak and pulled back the hood. The person she had agreed to meet wasn't here yet.

That meant she had the choice of where to sit. She took a small table to the side of the large fire, close enough to take the chill from her but out of the way of any sudden Floo arrivals. When Tom came around, she ordered tea and a shot of firewhisky. It was an indulgence she could ill afford these days, but she had decided that she would not be the one paying for it. Her fingers restlessly snapped the clasp of her crocodile-skin handbag open and shut.

She had been watching the fireplace and the Diagon Alley entrance, and therefore jumped when someone laid a hand on her shoulder. "Ms. Skeeter."

Rita Skeeter looked up into the stony face of the Granger brat. The silly child had apparently come through the Muggle entrance. She was wearing a coat of some odd material that was shiny; when she removed it to hang on the empty chair, Rita could see she was as dry underneath as if she had used magic.

She sat down and stared at Rita. It was a trick Rita had used many a time to convince a reluctant target to spill details out of nerves, and it irritated her that she began to feel the same nervousness under that hard stare. Finally she couldn't take it any more and broke the silence.

"Well, what's the meeting for this time, Miss Priss? Another hatchet job for that nutter Lovegood?" She made her voice scathing; she needed a good spirited fight.

"That story was the most accurate thing you've ever written in your career, Ms. Skeeter, and you know it." Hermione replied quietly, refusing to be drawn in. She reached into her own carryall and dug around for something.

"Accuracy is beside the point. Thanks to you I haven't been able to earn a living for a solid year—" She stopped as a small, heavy sack landed on the table in front of her, with a clink of metal. "What's this?"

"Open it."

Rita did, and her mouth dropped open at the sight of so many Galleons.

"There's one hundred fifty Galleons in there, that Luna and I pried out of her father. You wrote the story he sold to the _Prophet_, you should get a fair commission. You can believe me or not, but I never intended for you not to be paid for it."

Rita's mind was reeling, trying to calculate how much money she would have left once she'd settled the debts she had accumulated. The words "thank you" were on her lips, but she refused to let them out. Before she could think of something else to say, the Granger bit continued.

"I asked you here today to give you that, and to acknowledge that you held up your end of the bargain. The only thing you wrote, you did so because I asked for it—"

"Blackmailed me into it, you mean!" Rita snapped.

"—and it helped Harry immensely instead of hurting him. So, our deal is over. I sincerely hope when you return to writing that you'll find a different way of doing it."

"The way I write sells papers, missy, and that's the point of the game."

"Not now. Not with Voldemort out there—" Hermione gave Rita a withering glare at her startled squeak "—and preparing to strike. And that's the first thing you have to do…_start using the bloody name!_ Better yet, use his real name, the one he was born with! You have the power to remove a lot of the fear people are living with, if you'll only use it!"

At Hermione's words, Rita's fingers began itching for a quill. Real name? This child knew the history behind the most powerful dark wizard in a century? She longed to dive into her bag for parchment and her Quick-Quotes Quill, but for the last few months she'd made herself leave all her journalist's paraphernalia at home rather than be tempted.

And the girl surprised her again, this time with parchment, a bottle of ink, and a simple goose-feather quill. "Here. But the same terms apply as before. Don't embellish, don't lie. Just the facts as they stand."

"So I'm still writing to order?" Rita snarled. "I thought our bargain was over."

"It is. But if you want what I know, you'll have to do it my way. Otherwise I leave and you either have no story or have to do a lot of time-consuming digging for it." She tried to stare Rita down again, but this time broke off first with a cough, rubbing her chest.

Rita licked her lips and studied the maddening child in front of her. Not that she was really a child any more; she was taller and thinner than Rita remembered and paler as well. Her hair was still quite out of control but, as Rita had seen for herself, a bit of Sleekeasy's solved that. It wasn't so easy now to target her with comments about her looks, not that such an approach had ever worked with her. In fact, the only thing that had truly gotten Granger to lock horns with her had been her printed attacks on that oaf Hagrid…and Harry Potter.

Slowly, Rita opened the inkbottle and dipped the quill in. "All right, I'm listening."

Hermione reached over and poured some tea into a cup, getting out a small white bottle from her bag. Rita watched, interested, as Hermione swallowed two little pills with some tea, then added sugar to her cup.

Noticing the avid curiosity on Rita's face, Hermione stated, "Ibuprofen."

"What is that?"

"A Muggle medicine. It works better than any of the potions I've tried to control the pain." She shifted in her chair, trying to find the most comfortable position. "And since your next question was probably going to be 'What pain?', I'll tell you about it."

Hermione started with the battle in the Ministry, stating that Harry had been lured there with the lie that his godfather had been captured and that she and the others had insisted on coming with Harry. She described the battle itself, naming names for every Death Eater she could. She said that Dumbledore had interrupted the showdown between Harry and Voldemort, forcing the evil wizard to retreat.

Rita listened, writing feverishly and noting several places where she hadn't been told the whole truth. It didn't matter; there was enough here to write a story that would blow the moustache off the face of the editor at the _Daily Prophet_, certainly enough to get her job back after leaving it so suddenly. It was time for some questions.

"So, dear, why are you taking remedies for pain?" She noticed the twitch in Hermione's expression and knew that the girl didn't want to answer. But she had already guessed that she must.

"During the battle, we were fighting Dolohov and another Death Eater. I'd hit Dolohov with a Silencer to keep him from summoning more of them, and Harry got the other one with a Full-Body Bind. But Dolohov threw an _Exscindere_ at me before we could neutralize him."

Rita gasped in spite of herself. The only reason the Body-Ripping Curse was not on the list of Unforgivables was the fact that it could be blocked with a strong enough Shield Charm. A successful one tore into the body, puncturing the lungs and tearing the heart open. It had been Dolohov's favourite curse, the one he'd used to finish off the Prewetts. Rita hadn't known a Silencer could lessen the impact.

"Yes, I know, I'm lucky to be alive." Hermione drank some more tea, and Rita got the feeling she'd been dealing with much worse reactions from her parents. "So I wasn't aware of the final confrontation, but Neville told me what he could. And Harry's being quiet about what he witnessed at the end; all I know for sure is that Dumbledore arrived to drive Voldemort away, but not before Bellatrix Lestrange managed to kill Sirius Black."

"Sirius Black? Why on earth would she kill a fellow Death Eater?"

Hermione looked up, fire flashing in her brown eyes. "Because he wasn't a Death Eater. Peter Pettigrew is the Death Eater!"

Rita's mouth fell open and she gaped for a moment. Then her investigative greed took over. "Tell me!" she snapped eagerly, moving to a fresh stretch of parchment.

Hermione related the truth behind Sirius Black's imprisonment and escape. Rita felt her old passion racing through her as the words spilled from her quill. It would keep her in the headlines for weeks! And this time the truth was more riveting than anything she could do to slant it.

Rita wished desperately that she had a copy of her story about Harry from the previous February. Hermione could fill in some gaps and she was clearly willing to talk. Then she remembered what Hermione said at the start of this interview. "You said you knew the true name of You-Know-Who. Is that right?"

Hermione sighed, sitting up stiffly, and Rita poured her more tea. The pot was nearly empty, and Rita waved to Tom to refresh it. She added the amount of sugar she'd seen Hermione use, and the girl nodded her thanks.

"Voldemort's true name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. He had a witch for a mother but a Muggle father."

Rita goggled at that. "He's a half-blood?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes. Most of his followers aren't aware of that little titbit, or they weren't before Harry shouted it to them before the Ministry fight started. Voldemort's father didn't know he'd married a witch and abandoned her when he found out, before Tom was born. It's a little unclear, but it seems she died during or soon after the birth and Tom grew up in a Muggle orphanage until he received his Hogwarts letter.

"He was considered one of Hogwarts' most brilliant students, but even then he was preaching his foul stance against Muggles and Muggle-borns. He traced his father and killed him, possibly even before he left school. After Hogwarts, he disappeared deep into Eastern Europe for many years. He returned so changed that practically no one recognized him."

"How did you learn this?"

"There was a plot during our second year to try and disband the school. Lucius Malfoy had an old diary that belonged to Riddle, one in which Riddle had preserved his memories at sixteen. Malfoy planted that diary onto Ginny Weasley, enabling the memories to take over and solidify by drawing life from her as she wrote into what she thought was a blank journal. That entity sent out a basilisk that the real Riddle had commanded during his years at Hogwarts."

Rita caught her breath, remembering some of what she'd heard about the Petrifaction attacks at Hogwarts that year. But Hermione was continuing.

"Harry faced down the memory-Riddle, killed the basilisk and destroyed the diary, but not before learning a great deal of hidden history about his enemy. And Harry told us about it later on, once Dumbledore had confirmed it was true.

"So, you see why it's so important to get the truth out? Voldemort isn't all-powerful, he isn't a demon, he isn't invincible. He can make the most stupid mistakes." She thrust out one hand, chopping the air in her exasperation. "Harry's been able to thwart him at almost every turn. If the rest of the wizarding world would only come together, draw strength from each other, and refuse to be terrified by the persona he's created, then half the battle would be won!" The hand she'd been gesturing with slammed on the table in emphasis.

Rita grinned, relishing the block quote that she envisioned in the middle of the front-page story. Whether she knew it or not, Hermione Granger had just forged a credo.

"Is there anything else you have to share? Over dinner, perhaps?" Rita hadn't realized until now how late it had gotten.

Unfortunately, neither had Hermione. "Oh, is it that late? I'll have to hurry to catch a train, my parents will worry…" She trailed off as she dumped a few coins on the table to cover the drinks and began pulling her coat back on.

"Why not just Floo?"

"My house isn't connected to the network. In fact, Dumbledore has taken steps to make sure my parents can't be found, no matter what."

"A Fidelius?" Rita guessed shrewdly, and noted Hermione's angry glance. "And Harry Potter is your Secret Keeper, no doubt."

"Even if Dumbledore _had _considered Harry, I wouldn't have allowed it! Harry has far too much to be going on with as it is!"

"And you consider it your job to protect him, then?" Rita could sense it…she'd seen it before, which was why she'd written about it during the tournament.

"He's my best friend!" Hermione spat. "Of course I'm going to support and protect him!"

"Are you _sure_, dear? About the 'best friend' part? If even a thick Quidditch boy like Krum could see it, then it's rather obvious."

"_What_ is rather obvious?"

"You're in love with him. And I'd guess he's in love with you as well."

The colour drained from Hermione's face and she stalked out of the pub, not looking back.

* * *

That night, Rita sat down in her favourite chair, feeling more pleased with the world than she had in a long time. She was out of debt and had enough money to go on with for some time. She had eaten a marvellous meal, treating herself to many of the favourite foods she'd gone without for months. Her owl to Scriven Hackworth had been returned with an invitation to meet him in the morning. A pot of tea was ready at the table next to her. In her lap she had the notes she'd made during the meeting, fresh parchment, and the goose-feather quill Hermione had not collected when she left.

The Quick-Quotes Quill was on the table, at her elbow. She had debated for quite some time, and finally decided to write the first draft of this story without it. There was so much to process, so many details to get in, and she had promised to write this story straight. And she had felt a surprisingly deep thrill in the Leaky Cauldron, taking the story down herself, the adrenaline fuelling her hand as she wrote furiously. She hadn't felt this way about a scoop since her first year as a reporter.

She had already broken down the information in her head, over dinner. She could see three, possibly four major articles, with accompanying smaller stories and sidebars, ending with the revelation of You-Know-Who's real name and background.

You-Know-Who…she didn't yet know if she would be able to change Hackworth's mind on whether to print the name, but there was no possibility of that if she didn't make herself write it first.

She had to write the name.

_Remember what Granger said. He was a Hogwarts student. He's a half-blood. He had to create a grandstanding, impressive name to make himself feel worthwhile._

She tried a V, then had to stop because her hand was shaking badly enough to splash ink on her sleeve.

_Get hold of yourself! You've brought down Ministry officials! Your pen was the most feared in the country before the Triwizard Tournament! It's only a name!_

Slowly, fighting the tremble in her hand with every stroke, she wrote out: "Voldemort."

She held her breath, actually fearing that the page might burst into flame, or that he would appear in front of her, ready to strike. When nothing happened, she tried again.

_Voldemort_.

_It's just a name._

A marvellous feeling of boldness seized her, and she began writing:

_New information has come to light in the ongoing battle against the dark wizard Voldemort, _writes Rita Skeeter_. The _Daily Prophet_ has learned that the self-styled "lord" used the Ministry of Magic itself in an attempt to capture and kill the one person who has been his bane for nearly fifteen years._

_Last month, Voldemort sought to murder Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, by luring him to the Ministry with the lie that his godfather had been trapped there. Cut off from any assistance by Dolores Umbridge, former Special Assistant to the Minister of Magic and then-Acting Headmistress of Hogwarts, Potter acted by flying to the Ministry on Thestral-back, accompanied by five of his fellow students who refused to let him go alone. These caring and courageous students are the shining example that we all should follow in the coming days as we fight the evil that tries to spread._

_Voldemort's attack on the Ministry was two-fold: he sought to steal one of the many prophecies stored deep within the Department of Mysteries and at the same time tried yet again to rid himself of the one wizard who has managed to stop him repeatedly. With the lie that he held the boy's godfather prisoner, Voldemort plotted to trap Potter in the Ministry, where he attempted yet again to kill his nemesis._

_But this time, the Boy Who Lived had help. Potter was able to deny Voldemort access to the prophecy he was after, in part due to the efforts of Hogwarts students Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Ginevra Weasley and Ronald Weasley. Aid in the form of Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, arrived in a timely manner, interrupting a duel between the two enemies and driving Voldemort away…_

* * *

Scriven Hackworth had been the editor of the _Daily Prophet_ for twenty-eight years. His father, Scribner, must have been consulting a diviner, for less than a year after his retirement You-Know-Who's attacks had begun.

It had made his job both easier and harder. Easier to sell papers: everyone wanted to know what was happening and the _Prophet_ flew from the printers, literally. At the height of the terror, the fleet of owls had made over a dozen trips each to deliver the paper. Harder to choose what to print and how to present it: while the previous Minister of Magic had not been the bungler Fudge was, there had still been times when the Ministry had dictated what was published.

Hackworth re-read Skeeter's owl yet again, stroking his luxuriant black moustache. She had the most terrifyingly accurate nose for news and delivered her barbs with a caustic wit that the readers ate up. He'd been sorely put out when she gave notice after the Triwizard Tournament. Her acidic style and willingness to follow any angle for a by-line would have satisfied Fudge and his innocently-named Special Liaison to the Press, Rodulfus Groveley.

There was a knock at the door and Skeeter entered, exactly on time. She looked much as she had a year ago, except for a thinness that pinched her face. Her hair was the same fair curled mop, her jewel-studded glasses glittered, long pink talons matched her bright pink robes. She held out a hand. "Scriven, good to see you again."

He shook briefly, trying to convey the fact that he was doing her a favour. "Rita. It's been quite a while, eh?"

She sat down, unasked. "No time for natter, Scriven. What's the status over a new Minister about to be chosen?"

He was taken aback. This Rita was the Rita when she was onto a big story: all business and disconcertingly direct. She was digging in that cavernous bag of hers, but looking at him.

"Even if the process were begun tomorrow, it would still be at least six weeks before a new Minister was in place. And that's presuming all sides would agree instantly and that Fudge would step down without a fight."

She pulled out a large bundle of parchment scrolls and dropped them on the desk. "So we'll need to prevent your Special Liaison Groveley from knowing what's in here. Do you still have that Vanishing Cabinet in the morgue?"

Scriven pulled furiously at his moustache. He rubbed a hand over his completely bald pate. He stared at the pile of scrolls, wondering just how explosive the contents were. "It's a big risk, putting those in the Vanishing Cabinet. You don't know when or where they'll turn up without the second one."

Rita gave him a withering glare through her glasses. "Not these, Groveley!"

Scriven's mouth hung open for a long moment. He spent three more long minutes considering. Then he got up and strode over to the fireplace. Flinging a handful of Floo powder into the flames, he barked, "Printing room!"

A face ruddy with exertion and streaked with ink appeared in the fireplace. "You called, guv'nor?"

"Yes, I did. Hold page one!"

* * *

They stayed closeted in his office all day, sending an owl over to the Leaky Cauldron to have meals delivered. Groveley had yet to come to the _Prophet_ offices that day, but Rita's favourite photographer, Bozo, had instructions to get him into the Vanishing Cabinet as soon as he showed up. When Rita left, the next day's _Prophet_ was laid out with the real story behind the Ministry battle and she had the Black/Pettigrew scrolls with her, covered with Scriven's suggestions in his favourite purple ink. She Apparated to Diagon Alley, in front of Scribbulus' Everchanging Inks, nipping in just before they closed for the night. Now that she was back in business, it was time to restock on parchment and ink, and pick out a few non-enchanted quills. While she shopped, she basked in her successful arguments on printing "Voldemort" and worked over some of the changes Scriven wanted in her head.

As she left the store, she noticed old Doris Crockford screeching and stamping her feet. Must be a rat; poor Doris had a phobia about rats ever since accidentally Engorging one in a Charms class her second year. Rita watched the little furball scurry away and then blinked as a flash of reflected lamplight hit her square in the eye.

Rat…silver…it couldn't be!

Rita dodged behind a few cages in front of Eeylops Owl Emporium and immediately transformed. The fat black beetle flew in the direction the rat had been heading and caught up with it. The rat went into Knockturn Alley, staying close to the walls to dodge careless feet. It slunk into a tiny alley between Borgin and Burkes' and a potions shop. Rita followed, landing high above on the dank brick wall.

The rat looked around and sniffed the air, then suddenly shifted into a small man with a remarkably pointed nose. There was much less hair than there had been and what was left was greying, but Rita easily recognized Peter Pettigrew from the old photograph Scriven had tracked down in the files. Pettigrew was digging around in the pocket of his cloak and produced a little wooden box. He looked around in all directions again.

Without hesitating, without even thinking, Rita seized her chance. She flew down to Pettigrew and crawled under the hood of his cloak. If he was about to Portkey, in an area of concentrated magic that wouldn't immediately trip any Ministry alarms, she was small enough to be carried along with him.

The rigid little face of the beetle would have twisted into a smirk if it could as Pettigrew opened the box and touched a silver disk stamped with the Dark Mark.

* * *

They landed in a little clearing in a deep green wood. Rita shrank farther back under Pettigrew's hood as Voldemort himself stalked over. "About time, Wormtail."

"Forgive me, master. I had to find a secure place to use the Portkey." The little man dropped to the ground, cowering, and Rita nearly fell out of her hiding place. Voldemort stalked away, into the dense forest, and Pettigrew scrambled up and trotted after him.

Rita flew up into the branches of the trees. She flitted from leaf to leaf, easily keeping up as the dark wizard and his minion pushed their way through the underbrush. She tried to concentrate on chasing the story, to ignore the fear that was skittering around inside her. She studied what she could see of Voldemort carefully, to better describe him. His dead-white skin and emaciated frame made her think of a skeleton, and she distracted herself by picturing him with silly hats and goofy grins on his face; she had spent an interesting vacation in Mexico years ago being surrounded by grinning skulls during their _Día de los Muertos_ celebration.

Voldemort stopped so suddenly that Rita had to land no more than a foot over his head, dangling from a leaf. They were at the edge of the forest, looking at a large, low building swathed in darkness. Voldemort had an odd expression on his face as he studied the building. He whispered, so quietly that not even Pettigrew could hear him, "Eleven years. And now they will pay."

He raised his wand and hissed, "_Colloporti! Collofenestrae!_" Across the garden, Rita could see the spells take effect as they sealed all the doors and windows. What in the world was he doing? Why this place? There were no wizards in the area that Rita knew of. She glanced around at the scattered toys among the swings and teeter totters. Lots of children lived or visited here, it seemed. Voldemort was pausing, savouring the moment while a clearly confused Pettigrew waited.

_Eleven years…_

_Lots of children…_

Hermione's words floated back to her: _He grew up in a Muggle orphanage…_

This orphanage! Voldemort meant to destroy the place and everyone in it!

_This isn't right_, Rita thought, suddenly frantic. _There isn't a soul in there who remembers Tom Riddle! He's going to slaughter dozens of innocent children for __**nothing**__, unless somebody stops him!_

Realization dawned. _Unless __**I**__ stop him._

She flew to land on the top of a bush near the building and scanned the horizon. The closest neighbour was furlongs away, tiny lights twinkling in the distance, mocking her. As she clung to a leaf, she heard the reedy, triumphant voice cry "_Inflamare!_" Fires erupted in several places around the orphanage.

_There's no one else!_

She flew around to the other side of the building; she didn't know how long Voldemort would wait and knew she wasn't a match for him alone. She transformed and Apparated inside.

She materialized in a dormitory, with half a dozen teenage boys sleeping in beds. The smoke was already making them stir and cough. She cast a quick screen against the smoke and screamed, "FIRE!"

Even as a couple of the boys shot upright, she Disapparated and reappeared in another room. The charm and the alarm. Again. And again. When she got to the next room, she found the little girls awake, being shepherded out by an older girl. With enough people awake and acting, she turned her attention to the sealed exits.

The main entrance had doors of a style she'd rarely noticed, with full-length panes of glass in frames of wood. It gave her an idea; she couldn't perform a counterspell on every door and window, but she could do this.

Holding out her wand, she gathered herself and concentrated on the effect she wanted to produce.

"_Evanesco vitrea!_"

Obediently, the glass in the doors vanished, as well as in the windows. Now there should be a number of exits. The children would get clear of the building. They'd get clear…

They'd run straight into Voldemort.

Rita Apparated to the rear of the building, her heart in her mouth and adrenalin singing in her veins. She didn't know how she might hold him off, but she had to try. The children were defenceless.

The instant she reappeared, she whirled with her wand out…

And saw no one.

Voldemort had left.

Rita let out a huge sigh, then heard a rustle in the bushes. Pettigrew! She didn't see him, but…

"_Accio_ rat!"

Nothing.

Rita had the presence of mind to transform and fly to the top of the swings before she let herself collapse into gibbering aftershock. Her wings would not stop twitching; her antennae would not stop quivering. If she'd been in her human form, by now she would have been in full hysterics.

_What in Merlin's name was I thinking? What if he had stayed around and seen the children escaping? How could I have been so stupid?_

She could hear the growing noise of children shrieking and crying as they escaped the building. She could hear bells and see flashing lights in the distance, so help was on the way. As she watched, flames began to lick at a small wing of the building that looked like an office.

_An office._ Her journalist's instinct twitched along with her antennae. _Records._

A completely different energy surged, demanding that she get the story. Without a shred of the fear that had coursed through her moments earlier, Rita flew through a glass-less window and transformed. She cast a Flame-Freezing Charm to make the area safe and strode over to a bank of filing cabinets along one wall. There were enough to make her pause, but not for long.

With her wand, she drew letters of fire in the air: Tom Riddle. Then she waved her wand and snapped, "_Quaero!_" The flickering letters disappeared, and within seconds, one drawer on the rustiest cabinet shot out. "Tom Riddle" glowed at the top of a file. Snatching up the entire file and stuffing it into her bag, Rita Disapparated.

She reappeared in the print room of the _Prophet_, where at this time of night a handful of people worked to prepare the morning edition. For the first time ever, she realized, she was going to bump _herself_ off the front page!

"Hold page one!" she yelled.

* * *

The headline was blazoned across the front page: VOLDEMORT ATTACKS HIS MUGGLE HERITAGE.

_The dark wizard Voldemort attempted to take revenge on the last reminder of his half-blood Muggle status last night, _writes Rita Skeeter. _With rumours spreading rapidly that Voldemort had a Muggle father, the wizard once known as Tom Riddle moved to destroy the Muggle orphanage in Cheshire where he spent his years prior to Hogwarts._

_He sought to burn the entire residence to the ground, killing the children inside in an inexcusable massacre of innocents. The quick actions of an unidentified wizard in the area helped all the children and staff to escape with only minor injuries._

_With this attack comes the revelation of Voldemort/Riddle's history, the Muggle history he has been hiding from even his closest followers…_

Rita read the story with satisfaction as she walked down Diagon Alley toward her customary Apparition point. She had nailed Voldemort to the wall, tearing the carefully constructed façade to ribbons, and no one deserved to be shredded more than he did. Already one could sense a change in the air of Diagon Alley. Only yesterday there had been an atmosphere of fear and suspicion as people drew away from one another, scurrying to be done with business and out of sight. Now they were grouped together, buzzing with interest as they read the _Daily Prophet_ to each other.

_What sheep people are! If Voldemort or a pack of Death Eaters popped in right now, they'd stain their robes!_

She folded her newspaper and shoved it into her bag.

_Pop! Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!_

Even as she heard the rapid sounds of Apparating wizards, Rita ducked into a door and retreated. Crouching behind a huge stack of fireworks decorated with large, interlocking red W's, she transformed and buzzed up to the open transom over the door.

The Death Eaters, in their hoods and masks, were battling a combination of Aurors and ordinary wizards. Yes, some had scattered or were cowering in corners, but a sizable number were fighting back.

Rita decided that this wasn't a healthy place for her right now. She flew off to find a safe haven elsewhere. She needed to think.

* * *

Rita spent the next few hours sipping a cup of tea at a table in the Mellow Muffin, a small café in Brighton that catered to the wizarding crowd, as she pondered her situation. Her little cottage was Unplottable, had been for years to avoid incidents, but its location was easy enough to deduce. She might be able to stay with her cousin in York…

What to do? The fact that she was an Animagus was a very closely guarded secret—not even her editor knew how she got the majority of her exposés. She had covered her trail after the Triwizard Tournament, ambushing every Slytherin student she'd talked to and Obliviating them. At this point the only ones who knew were Bozo and the Granger girl…unless she'd told her friends.

Potter. She'd almost certainly told Potter.

Her thoughts drifted to Hermione's reaction at the mention of the boy. She had bolted at Rita's declaration rather than argue, as was her habit. It made Rita even surer that she had hit the mark. And her ferocity…the leap to defend him over the Fidelius comment—

_The Fidelius!_

Rita smiled and drew a sheet of parchment out of her bag.

* * *

Hermione spent the days after her meeting with Skeeter in her room. This was not unusual; she was avoiding her parents as she had been the entire three weeks of summer hols so far. Dumbledore had destroyed the wall of ignorance she'd so carefully built around them since her second year and the encounter with the basilisk, detailing in his letter to them exactly what had happened to her and why. Her mother was constantly watching her, hugging her, and apt to burst into tears at odd times, unwilling to come right out and talk to her daughter about how she'd nearly been killed. But her father was worse, with his veiled hints that maybe she ought to complete the last of her magical training here at home…and that maybe she oughtn't to see so much of the Potter boy at school the coming year…

Now, with at least two hours before she could expect the day's _Daily Prophet_, she paced around, flopped on her bed with her fourth-year Defence Against Dark Arts text, got up, petted Crookshanks as he leapt onto her dresser, paced some more. She kept trying to go over the meeting in her memory, trying to remember if she'd made a slip anywhere, revealed anything she'd meant to keep secret. But over and over, Rita Skeeter's voice echoed in her head.

_"You're in love with him. And I'd guess he's in love with you as well."_

She did love Harry, she knew that. Ever since that small boy had come looking for her, faced down a troll for her, she'd known he was special. Their friendship had grown close over the years, to the point they could almost read each other's thoughts from the most fleeting expression or gesture. She loved both Harry and Ron, they were her best friends. But the Skeeter woman was implying more.

Funny she should bring up Viktor. He'd asked her the same thing once, after the Yule Ball was over and done. But she had been so worried about Harry, about the fact that despite what he'd been saying she was sure he hadn't worked out the egg clue yet. She'd dismissed Viktor's comment at the time…rather brusquely, she now realized. Whose view was the more accurate, hers or those around her?

She heard the whisper of wings and a scratch on her sill and turned eagerly to open her window. But it wasn't Hedwig or Pig or even the tawny owl that usually delivered the paper. A mottled grey-and-black owl was sitting there, a note tied to its leg.

She took the note and the owl settled on her chair, apparently awaiting a reply. She tried to break the seal, but it stuck fast. Her name was clearly written across the edge of the scroll, and she tugged at it again. "Come on, it's me. Open up!"

She pulled her wand out of the waistband of her jeans and touched it to the seal. It glowed for a moment, then melted away. Hermione pulled the scroll open and groaned when she saw the signature.

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_Please burn this letter as soon as you have finished reading it._

_As you may have noticed by reading the paper, my editor agreed to publish the information you gave me. However, I have become a highly visible target for Voldemort and his Death Eaters. I must take steps to protect myself so I can continue what I started and take down Voldemort through the press._

_I have already communicated with Dumbledore, and he has agreed to assist me in the casting of a Fidelius Charm, which will protect the location of where I have chosen to hide and the fact that I am an Animagus. I have chosen you to be my Secret-Keeper, as you have proven to be a person who keeps her promises as a matter of honour._

_For safety's sake, please send me a reply only saying "yes" or "no", nothing else._

_Sincerely, _

_Rita Skeeter_

Hermione reread the letter, memorizing it, then got out the matches that she kept for candles and slipped into the loo. She set the letter alight and held it over the toilet until it was nearly consumed. Then she dropped the ash and the last corner in, flushing the evidence away.

She returned to her room and sat at her desk, drawing a notepad toward her in resignation.

* * *

They were gathered in Dumbledore's office. Hermione had not been in this room before and was trying to see everything there was to see without appearing to gawk as she dusted ash from her clothes. Dumbledore knew exactly what she was doing and smiled into his beard. Rita was sitting in a chintz chair, drumming long pink nails on her crocodile bag.

"What are we waiting for, if I may ask?"

Dumbledore looked at her and smiled. "Confirmation that Mister Potter and Mister Weasley have had their memories altered, of course. As you insisted. They are the only ones Miss Granger told about your…status."

Rita glanced over at Hermione, who had paused in her examination of a small bottle filled with a bright purple liquid at hearing Potter's name. Her face was sullen, angry, and regretful. She noticed Rita looking at her and quickly schooled her expression, fingering the stopper of the bottle.

Rita was about to needle her with a few choice questions when a shimmering dart came zooming in out of nowhere to hover in front of Dumbledore. A voice she didn't recognize said, "It's done." She judged by Hermione's face that the girl recognized the voice and for some reason looked comforted. The light winked out when Dumbledore waved his wand at it.

He stood. "We are ready."

Hermione took her appointed place, in front of and to the right of Dumbledore. Rita stood to the left, so that they formed a perfect equilateral triangle. The headmaster began the incantation, but spoke in a near whisper so that neither of them could hear more than a word or two of the spell.

Suddenly a wind picked up around them, blowing out many of the candles. Rita felt warmth wash over her for a few moments, then concentrate in a tiny ball of heat that lingered just above her collarbones before vanishing as if it had been sucked out by the movement of Dumbledore's wand. And then Hermione was bathed in a soft golden light that had spread from a single point at her throat.

Hermione watched as the opposite happened: for a moment the reporter was surrounded by a golden nimbus that shrank and followed Dumbledore's command to go to her. In a flash she was immersed in the light as it expanded to cover her and felt as warm as if she were basking in a Mediterranean sun.

And then the light died and Dumbledore laid down his wand. "It is done. Now there is no one who can ever discover where Ms. Skeeter is staying or what she can do, unless you choose to reveal it."

Hermione nodded.

"You have a code in case you do need to reveal it?"

They both nodded.

"Miss Granger, I know this was not your preferred method of dealing with what has been started, but know that you honour your Gryffindor tradition by agreeing to it." He turned to Rita, who was checking that everything was in her bag. "And I trust that without your safety to worry about, you will continue the efficiency you've shown so far in undoing Voldemort's work?"

Rita snapped the clasp shut. "Of course I will, Dumbledore. That was the whole point of this little exercise. I get the most impressive return to the headlines I could ever want and she gets to help her boyfriend. Mister Riddle's right-hand man Pettigrew is next on the list." She nodded to both of them and strode out of the room before Hermione could stop blushing and formulate an angry response to the gibe.

Dumbledore noticed Hermione's discomfort and gestured to a chair. "Please sit. The Secret-Keeper often finds emotions running high for a few hours after the casting."

"It's not that, Professor. I just hate that she insisted on Obliviating Harry and Ron. We're best friends; we're supposed to trust each other. I had enough trouble keeping the Time-Turner a secret from them, and that was ages ago!"

Dumbledore peered at her over his glasses, the blue eyes sombre instead of twinkling. But when he didn't say anything, she burst out, "It's a violation, taking someone's memory! I shouldn't have agreed to let Harry be messed with like that, not on top of everything Voldemort's done to him!"

"Even though we may yet be able to end Voldemort's power for all time?"

Hermione put her face in her hands. "I know, I know, the greater good and all that. But it still doesn't make me feel any better knowing that because of me Harry had his memories altered!"

"Then allow me to ease your mind. Remus?"

Hermione looked up in confusion as Remus stepped into the room from a doorway hidden behind a tapestry. "Professor? How did you get here so quickly?"

"I've been here the whole time, Hermione." Remus smiled as he sat down and Hermione turned her baffled face to Dumbledore.

"Miss Skeeter, like many wizards, knew something of the Fidelius, but not its specifics. It is not necessary to go around Obliviating anyone with knowledge of the secret being kept; Harry and Ron simply won't be aware that they know what they know as long as you do not bring it up. The same goes for anyone Ms. Skeeter forgot to attend to before; she could even transform in front of her photographer and he would not realize it. Only you could tell him and have him remember. Just as I am the only one who can reveal the location of the Order's headquarters and you can only discuss it amongst fellow members. Anyone else simply would not remember the conversation until the spell was broken. Remus here won't remember anything more than visiting us tonight once he leaves your presence."

"So why did you tell her you had Obliviated them?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "Miss Skeeter is not to be wholly trusted. She will only continue to make herself useful to us as long as she gets what she wants from it. So I let her think her conditions were met, as casting the Fidelius gave the results she wanted anyway." He noticed Hermione sinking back into her chair, relieved of her burden of guilt, and his eyes began to twinkle again as he traded knowing smiles with Remus. "It will be all right, Hermione. There will be no need for Harry to forgive you for this."

* * *

Voldemort screamed and tore the newspaper in half, flinging the pieces away from him as his minions cowered. He advanced on Pettigrew, who curled into a tiny ball as his master began berating him. Rita couldn't hear any words through the window she was looking through—some new kind of Silencing Charm was in effect—but she wasn't worried. The exposé of Pettigrew's role in the Potters' death and Black's innocence had hit the streets, fanning not only the growing resistance against Voldemort, but also a stir against Fudge (since Millicent Bagnold was no longer in office and Barty Crouch was missing, presumed dead at the hand of his son). Rita's next stories were already at the presses for the morning edition: a tell-all of the events of Harry Potter's first two years at Hogwarts and a juicy detailing of yesterday's failed assassination attempt on the Boy Who Lived that netted three more Death Eaters to add to the group already in Azkaban.

Rita had alerted Dumbledore after witnessing (in beetle form) the plans being laid and relished writing the story after. It wasn't hard to make an oaf like Goyle look like an idiot, but being able to pick apart the wily Rookwood as well was an unequivocal pleasure.

As she watched, Rita noted with glee that the Death Eaters' numbers were dwindling fast. Between the group sent to Azkaban after the Department of Mysteries debacle and yesterday's arrests, Voldemort probably had less than a dozen warm bodies to work with. They re-formed their loose circle around their master timidly as his tirade came to an end. Then Voldemort cast an illusion that floated in the centre, of a craggy island with icy waters crashing on the shore.

_Azkaban! They must be planning to break out the rest of their side!_

Rita buzzed from window to window, looking for the slightest opening to get in and counter the silencing ward. She found a crack under the eaves and slipped inside, finding herself in a garret. She could hear everything clearly from the floor below and settled down to listen with all her attention so she could report the details to Dumbledore.

Then she could get to the real work of composing her next story.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm not the type to beg for reviews, seeing as I've badly fallen out of the habit myself. If you feel moved to react to what you've read in a review, constructive feedback (especially Brit-picking) is always welcome.


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